


Truce

by graywhatsit



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Depression, Gen, Hat Films, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"now the night is coming to an end / the sun will rise and we will try again"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> title and summary from truce by twenty one pilots  
> also something moved from my tumblr-- most of everything i'm putting here is there, as well

It was a quiet, cold night Trott had decided to take first watch. Late in the autumn– or was it winter, now? He’d lost all track of the seasons, the dates– with the air dipping lower and lower each night. Dew slowly and steadily turned to frost, covering each browned blade of grass and dead leaf with a light dusting of silvery-white.

    The cat’s claw moon and stars were equally as cold and about as unforgiving, sharp as glass underfoot, as the gaze of long-distance scavengers ready and waiting for the perfect moment to send a round right into his head.

    Maybe they were smart and weren’t out tonight, had found some kind of zombie-free shelter and were taking full advantage of the safety. He certainly wasn’t.

    At least there was no chorus of chirps and creaks, late in the year as it was, and he hadn’t heard an owl in at least an hour. Probably time for him to head back and try to get some uninterrupted sleep, but he couldn’t get his body to move, not just from the cold. Perhaps it was his thoughts, perhaps it was from staying still so long, perhaps from some combination of the three or something else entirely– nothing was going to get him to move quite yet.

    Until soft footsteps crackled the frosty grass and leaf combination next to Trott, and he quickly turned, gun falling quickly and with disturbing ease into his grip, stock pressed firmly into his shoulder, head placed just right to look down the sight if need be, finger on the trigger and barrel pointed right at the threat.

    “Are you really gonna shoot me, Trotty?”

    At Smith’s voice, he let out the breath he’d been holding, shifting his weapon onto his back, flipping the safety on as he did so. “Might want to say something first, I _almost_ fucking shot you.”

    “I’ll remember for next time.” With a wince, the taller man slowly eased himself onto the ground next to his friend. The cold must have been absolute torture on his injuries– with limited supplies and little time to rest and recuperate, many things didn’t quite heal the way they should have. Trott had his own left shoulder– aching and stiff in the below-freezing temperatures– to prove that. “Your turn to sleep, mate. I’ve got this– won’t let any scavengers or zombies get to you.”

    His teasing if hushed tone didn’t get much of a reaction from the other man, who simply shrugged his aching shoulder. The sudden jolt didn’t bother him too much– it at least kept his eyes open and his mind alert for a little while. “Not that tired. I’ll be up for a bit longer still.”

    Smith kept quiet for a few moments, and Trott had almost thought he’d fallen back asleep when he spoke next. “What’s up? Don’t say nothing, because I know you. Tell me.”

    They’d known each other for too long to try and lie, though he sincerely wanted to for a moment. If he said what was really on his mind… then again, Smith would find out the truth no matter which route he took. Honesty really was the best policy with him.

    “I… I don’t want to do this anymore.”

    Trott wasn’t one to be easily demoralized, so this sentence came as a bit of a shock. A look over of his friend proved this was no joke– Trott looked maybe twenty or thirty years older than he should have, weak and weary and exhausted, and so hopeless it even made Smith want to cry, and he didn’t cry for anything. He sagged in his spot, the makeshift armor and weapon seeming more like burdens than anything to keep him safe, and he looked through the horizon in front of them, rather than at anything in particular. A true thousand yard stare.

    “Hm?”

    It wasn’t confusion, but more of a prompt to continue his thought process. Grateful for the chance to spill his guts, perhaps spurred on by the quiet, Trott did so, building up steam the more words that poured out.

    “When did everything go to shit? I don’t even remember..” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know what day, month, or year it is, anymore. At first, we survived, we were cocky and sure everything would be back to normal. I remember– we laughed and acted like it was fucking DayZ, like a fucking _game_.

    “And then everyone started going and things got worse. We got hurt. We were starving– we still are. There was no sign of anything getting better, and there still isn’t. We’re running and hiding like deer and there are both people and former people out for our blood while we’re broken and dying of starvation and exposure and–”

    Suddenly, Trott cut off, though it didn’t seem like he was close to finished. Even in the pale, washed-out light coming from the sky above, Smith could see him trembling, head bowed, now-shaggy hair hiding most of his face.

    He heard sniffling.

    Slowly, something dawned on Smith.

    “You didn’t have the safety on.”

    Trott didn’t respond, and so he continued, slowly and carefully.

    “You always say to keep the safety on. Unless you’re going to use it.”

    Still no response, and he felt more than a little sick, putting the pieces together slowly but surely. He wasn’t an unintelligent man, but he really, truly didn’t want to think about the conclusion he was gathering.

    “Like I said,” Trott spoke up after a few minutes of shocked, horrified silence, “I don’t want to do this anymore. There’s nowhere to go, no way anything’s going to go back. I’m just tired.”

    More than tired. Defeated. It was chillingly out of character, and before Smith knew much of what he was doing, he had Trott’s gun off of his back and behind his own.

    “Hey–”

    “Stay alive.” Smith looked him dead in the eye as he said this, and the serious, fierce stare even made him flinch. “We go wherever you do, Trott, and I’m not too keen on giving up just yet.”

    “Smith, there’s nothing out there!” As he spoke, Trott flung an arm out, sweeping and including the wide expanse of land in front of them from their vantage point on the hill. “You could look for years– I think we have! What’s the point?”

    “The point is,” another voice sounded, and both men on the ground turned to see the third of their trio, still groggy, coming to join them, “we look and we find something. If we don’t, we _make_ something.”

    “The sun’s gonna rise, like it does every day. As long as the sun comes up over there–” here, Smith pointed to the east with the barrel of one of the guns, “– there’s a chance we can find something, or make something new.”

    “I think the apocalypse made you a poet.”

    He disregarded Trott’s snark in favor of treating it as a compliment. “Thank you. The day it stays dark– that’s the day you can give up. And save some rounds for us, too.”

    Ross gave him a look, a shiver running down his spine. “Fucking christ, that’s dark.”

    “Well, we’ll all go together when we go.”

    “What if we go way up north? You know, where it stays dark for months out of the year?” Trott had his arms crossed, but the broken look was at least replaced with a smile, however weak it might have been.

    “Well, we’ll just try to keep from going there, eh?” Reaching over, Smith squeezed his friend’s shoulder– his uninjured one– lightly. “Besides, it’s _light_ there for another few months of the year.”

    “Always a good side.” Ross paused, then wrinkled his nose. “God, he’s right– it _did_ make you a poet. Come on, Trott, let’s leave the artist alone.”

    He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. Before he could open it again– to say an insult or thank you or whatever he was thinking of saying– Smith shoved at him. “Get some sleep. I can’t think when you two won’t shut up.”

    Smith listened to their footsteps for a few moments, and once he was sure they’d settled down, he reached back for his own gun.

    With a soft click, he turned the safety on.


End file.
